


High Society

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for lolafeist's Merlin music and lyrics fest and this prompt in particular: <i>Grew up in the city, had a lot of money, sponging off his daddy all the time, he lives in a bubble, never had to struggle, far from the benefit line. But he feels blue, sometimes, and his blood bleeds red like mine, grass is greener on the other side....</i><br/>Or Merlin, Arthur, and an Aston Martin</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Society

Lanterns are hanging from a series of purposefully rigged-up but almost invisible metal wires, illuminating the terrace, the grand steps leading to the sprightly water games of the fountain and the gardens below with their soft bronze glow.

The pale, evanescent moon's at her full up there in the quiet night sky, as if she's been harnessed to pay homage to the evening's splendour.

Fleeting beauties in evening gowns sashay past the pristinely, lavishly laden, white-bedecked buffet table with its multi-layered silver trays and wrought crystal carafes. They're elegantly holding onto bubbling champagne flutes.

A low cut dress encases the curves of a woman's luscious body, her beautiful curves; a string of pearls in the form of a choker necklace constricts her swan-like throat. A glittery hair clip, butterfly shaped, catches and reflects the light from the lanterns above.

The stiff and proud gentlemen, showcasing bow ties, cummerbunds and peaked lapels, hold court, as their stern voices fill the air. Laughter bubbles forth from someone else, somewhere else. It's not light-hearted. It's an artificial construct of a laugh, a paradox of agony espousing merriment; a crooked, broken geometry of sound.

Music floats from the small orchestra, never overriding the effervescent voices of the guests. Thrilled tones, bubbly tones, serious tones. This is high society mingling, like finding like; transient, fake, melodramatic gestures punctuate the rituals of the rich and powerful.

There's no clash; there's no fight; there's only conformity, passivity, movement that dissolves in stillness, feverishly chased happiness transmuting itself into a jarring, unnatural high. Hypocrisy meets wealth as the notes of a stringed instrument pierce the air and fail to rend the veil of form.

French windows lead back to the house; because of the play of reflected lights nothing that is inside can be seen until the door's pushed open and a man and woman emerge.

Merlin has scaled a perimeter wall in his torn-at-the-knees jeans just to catch a glimpse of that man. He's scraped his hands; his knuckles are chafed raw, bleeding; his blood looks dark in the moonlight, as far away as he is from the lights inside.

And all of this for a second of him.

The man Merlin is watching is leading the woman he must have been talking to by the waist. He gets a wine glass from a waiter who's standing at attention and brandishing a salver like a shield. The first man presents the glass to the lady he's with. She nods, likely thanking him, and accepts it, her long fingers closing around the stem.

It's all so refined. So above Merlin, who'll never get his limbs to move in a coordinated gesture, let alone in such a polished way. It's perfectly choreographed and smooth. _He_ belongs to this fairytale-like world in a way Merlin never will.

Merlin slides his hands in his pockets; he's the trespasser here, the outcast, the outsider looking in.

He doesn't know why he's here or what he meant to accomplish by coming. He's standing on the freshly cut grass, its fragrant smell tickling his nostrils, with no idea as to what to do now that he's trekked this far.

The wall by the garden might have as well have been an insurmountable partition, a dyke of old, an impregnable keep.

As the idiot he is, he's walked through a common to get here. He's walked miles because he can't even afford the train fare. His trainers are muddy and washed out as is his tee. Acknowledging all this, blaming himself for having pulled this silly stunt, he considers his options and comes up with a single one; he means to take a step back and retreat but the moon or an errant cloud or destiny even betrays him and he's washed in light when he was meant to be plunged in darkness.

And Arthur – Arthur sees him, effects a double-take, as though for a moment he can't breathe. 

The world stops spinning.

The music might have been drowned to silence by Merlin's clamouring heartbeat. Arthur sees him – has seen him. With a determined air, Arthur strides to the the low terrace wall, leaving everything behind, offering up no apology to his parnter, and instead of marching towards the steps, he vaults over the stone railing and meets Merlin in the shadows of the garden, where the lawn ends and the manicured trees are standing clustered thick.

“I–” Merlin says, needing to explain his presence here, wanting to say he'd never meant to turn up without an invitation. He's never wanted get to know how life on the oder side of the class fence looks like.

“Merlin.” Arthur smiles brightly and earnestly. There's nothing perfect or smooth about this smile. It's not just a sardonic or slightly pleased quirk of the lips. It reaches his eyes. 

A little manic, still wearing that gorgeous smile, Arthur grabs him by the hand and pushes him towards the artificial thicket that takes up a huge portion of the grounds.

“Where are we going?” Merlin asks. It's breathless because Arthur's now jogging down a path, zigzagging around the hulking trees, even though they can barely see past their noses. Arthur's leading him forwards and Merlin blindly trails him.

“Trust me,” Arthur says and turns around, a glint of teeth. It's another smile.

For a while they wander across the meandering estate. Merlin has lost his sense of direction; he feels a heady sense of vertigo as he moves quickly in the dark without quite knowing where he's headed. All party noises have trickled down to nothing.

A strange thrill chases down his spine at this little adventure, but Arthur seems to know where he's going, so Merlin's confident. He believes in Arthur.

Their roaming appears endless but Merlin reflects that their hurried romp through the thicket mustn't have lasted more than a few brief minutes.

Then Merlin realises they've come full circle, the pines and other trees he can't recognise because he's no gardener or botanist, clearing up to show the back of the grand main house.

Like a man who knows his business, Arthur leads him to a lower building that must be a new construction if compared to the rest of the old Pendragon seat.

The electrically activated garage door in certainly a new addition, Merlin has the time to think, as Arthur pushes him inside the garage itself – which looks like a hangar to Merlin – and backs him up against the cold bonnet of a silver Aston Martin.

“Fake, so fake,” Arthur says, as his hands reach for Merlin, grab him by the waist, proprietorial, greedy, and sneak under Merlin's tee to touch bare flesh. As a man afire with thirst, Arthur noses down Merlin's neck, nuzzles there, drags his lips over Merlin's throat again and again till it stings. “I was trapped,” he says and bites, making Merlin moan and throw his head back. “This house's a cage.” The kisses are hot, open-mouthed. Arthur's hands touch him, own him, make him tremble. “You're real,” he groans.

Merlin's got to laugh at that. “Growing philosophical, are we?” But then Arthur's hands brand him, mark him. They're eager at the zip of his trousers, scorching hot as they find Merlin's half-erect cock.

Merlin keens, loud and high-pitched, scrambles for Arthur's fancy trousers, with their satin braid following the line of the seams, pushes them past his hip, and half way down, so that Arthur's arse is bared or just minimally covered by the tail of his shirt, and touches him in return.

That's when Arthur hisses, angles his head and pushes his tongue in Merlin's open mouth, thrusting inside as he thrusts in Merlin's hand.

For a few seconds, it's a bit of a tangle of arms and hands, so they go at it at a different angle. Their moves are quick and frantic, as though there's not enough time and they must touch or die.

Needing to do something, to have more of him, Merlin takes both their dripping cocks in his hands and starts tugging, raw and rough, fast and merciless, giving them long, slower strokes when it becomes too much and Arthur rasps filthy nothings against his lips.

Their cocks slide one against the other and they both take in a series of sharp, agonised breaths when they do. There's one more kiss, sloppy and spit-wet, tongues meeting and curling one around the other in the tiny space left between their mouths.

Then it's too much, too good, pleasure uncoiling in Merlin's belly, for Merlin has taken to pressing them tightly together and stroking them at the same time in a rhythm that is insistent though syncopated. It hurts in a way that makes torture look like a goal.

Wild, driven mad by the intimacy of Arthur's smell filling his nostrils, Merlin finds he's holding Arthur against himself; steely, hard and leaking. Flesh that is also velvety soft shields the hard length beneath. A few heartbeats later, Merlin's squeezing them both together once more, pressing and rubbing, till they both emit low, garbled, wounded noises. He does until instinct takes over for both of them.

Violently, Arthur thrusts his hips against Merlin's, a sideways circling motion that makes Merlin almost lose his hold on them. It's primal, jerky, instinctive. A snap.

Merlin just wants to rut up against him, seize the moment. But he can only feel Arthur and wait for the surrender of his own body.

“I want you,” he says stupidly; as if that's a valid metaphor for all that he's got inside.

Arthur's broken, jagged voice comes as from a wasteland, “You, you make me feel.”

“Good to know,” Merlin tries to say, never letting them go, playing with their foreskins, sliding them back and forth, trying to give Arthur as much pleasure as he himself is getting from this. There's nothing that has ever got him burning so before. Arthur makes him want crazy, impossible things.

“I'm trying to...” Arthur's ability to summon words must have evaporated right then because he's usually more eloquent than this. Merlin'd make fun of his stuttered delivery if he hadn't been busy studying Arthur as he looks down, wonder-filled, head a little bowed, at the two cocks in Merlin's hand.

Abruptly, Arthur's mouth goes slack, as if he can't rein himself in at the sight. He braces himself on the hood of the car, biceps bulging even through the fabric of his dinner jacket, and he pistons off one last time before coming all over Merlin's own cock and fingers.

It's scalding hot; and when Arthur shakes in this half-loose embrace they've got going, Merlin comes undone himself, closing his eyes and spilling at the thought he's just jacked off Arthur Pendragon, the man who's held to be haughty and immovable, noble and unreachable.

They're both shivering now and it might be the cold or it might be they hypersensitive dicks brushing one against the other, slowly flagging, come smeared all over their uncovered bellies, part of their clothing and Merlin's hand. Or it might be the fear of getting caught.

On balance, there might be a myriad of reasons that aren't strictly physical for their near-panting, shaking collapse on top of a sleek car that costs more than Merlin will ever, ever earn, the bauble of a rich boy.

But that's not important because Merlin can't make any sense of this as he muzzles and lazily licks at the skin of Arthur's jaw as if he's kitten.

Too tired, they don't make a move to fix their clothes, make themselves look presentable. Arthur's slumped in Merlin's half embrace, his face buried in Merlin's neck when he mumbles, “Let's run away; let's take this car and run away.”

“Are you daft?” squeaks Merlin, trying to get to shift Arthur's dead weight so that Arthur will look him in the eye and maybe talk sense.

Arthur's expression is elated, fond and a little crazy when he says,“Let's live, the real thing, me and you and nothing more. I want you. I want you. I want you.” He kisses Merlin, his lips closing around Merlin's upper one, soft and gentle, cupping the side of his face as though he's got to shelter Merlin or something. “Let's do it. I don't want this.” He makes a little shoulder motion as though he means to encompass everything that he's just left behind.

“Arthur, I've got nothing on earth.”

“Have you ever driven an Aston Martin, Merlin?”

And Merlin can't say that he has.

The End.


End file.
